What we'll be
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: (when we grow up). Unilock. John, Sherlock, and Greg share an apartment during Uni. They get drunk a lot and generally annoy each other and get stressed and yell at each other. And John is maybe-bi-but-not-really. What were you expecting? T for sex going on but you can't actually see it (or, like, read it). Hopefully this is funny? But also serious?
1. Chapter 1

** UNILOCK!**

**This has been hanging around my computer for aaaaaaaages.**

**Sherlock, John, and Greg live together in a flat during Uni.**

**Sherlock and John are best friends but the kind of best friends that make frequent sexual jokes that are just on the verge of being serious but if they did do anything they would just be friends. **

**That type of friendship. Got it?**

**GOOD!**

* * *

John stumbles through the door on a Friday night, alone, clothes rumpled, rugged, alcohol scenting his every move, and contemplates the large pile of books in his way. Hands unsure, he fumbles loose papers in an effort to clear his way, palms and fingers stupid without the friendly press of a glass or a bottle. He doesn't think he can sidestep this.

He yells for Sherlock.

"I'm - ah - busy!" comes the reply from the bedroom on the left, Sherlock's room. His voice is darker, rougher than usual.

"Sherlock its important."

"No its not."

"Sherlock-" he stops his protests immediately, as a moan - yes definitely a moan - drifts through the door of the bedroom. "Sherlock are you having sex? Without me?"

John isn't entirely sure why this distinction is important. It just doesn't seem fair that Sherlock is having sex and he isn't.

"Obviously," and then, "Oh, do that again."

John tries to decide whether, if he pushes more, Sherlock will come and get him, or just completely ignore him for the next few days.

He doesn't come up with a conclusion, but the pile still presents a problem.

"Sherlock?"

Quietly, "No, keep going, he'll stop. Just let me-" louder, "John what do you want? Keep in mind that I can hide your body very, very easily once you're dead."

John allows him a few seconds to ponder this, and then decides that if Sherlock is that coherent, that the sex is obviously not good enough, "There's stuff. Books. Where I need to walk."

For about a minute, John waits patiently as the amplitude of the moans and whimpers escalates. He revises the part of his thinking that included Sherlock having bad sex. They both sound as if they are having a wonderful time and are feeling great. John is feeling very lonely, and very aroused.

"Ask him if he has a sister," John yells. He's not usually crass, but he has been put through a dry spell recently, bogged down and buffeted by a hurricane of work. And whoever comes home with Sherlock and then continues through a conversation with a flatmate has got to be a kinky fucker, and up for anything, not easily put off by a few crass comments. And probably also has great genes.

Has he mentioned? John is going through a bit of a dry spell.

Apparently neither of them deem it worth their time to answer, and John decides that he will forever be in the dark.

Sherlock walks out a few minutes later, lips slick and redder than John has ever seen them. His eyelids are heavy-lidded and John is so much in need of any kind of pleasure besides that given by his left hand, that Sherlock looks like sex personified.

John has conquered the stack of books and papers by declaring them his makeshift throne, and he carefully maneuvers himself to completely face Sherlock, the structure wobbling slightly unnervingly.

Sherlock's partner for the night walks out just a few seconds later, fiddling with the lopsided button - hole arrangement that is his shirt.

He's hot.

Sherlock is pretty.

John has very recently discovered - the revelation of a mere few seconds ago - that he may or may not be a little versatile with his sexual orientation when he's hammered and in desperate need of a shag.

"You had sex without me," he levels accusingly, the point seeming even more sore now that he's seen what Sherlock gets.

The guy has smooth, dark skin, and a bright grin that tugs at the plush curve of his lips.

A bright tongue darts out to chase the round of the bottom one.

Jesus Christ.

Then the lips part and the mouth forms words. American words. Dark, heavy, round words that land in the air and simmer there, "I don't have a sister. But I am very much up for another round," he proclaims as he looks John up and down.

That-

That is very tempting.

But no, "I'm not sure Sherlock would like that very much."

Sherlock, as if awakened by the mention of his name, darts to life and steps over to assist John in his plight. His voice is made breathy from the slight strain of supporting almost the full weight of John as he helps him from his seat, "John is being very, very polite. Even in his drunk state, but he doesn't..." he pauses to shift John more fully against him,

"Bat for our team."

John lets himself be half carried over towards his bedroom, but untangles himself from the wrap of Sherlock's limbs to slump slightly against the delightful stranger. "Don't listen to him," he advises, "He thinks he knows all of it," what 'all of it' directly refers to, none of them are sure, but John's wide gesture into the unknown seems an attempt to cover it.

"John-" starts Sherlock.

John cuts him off, "I would love to bugger you," he runs a heavy hand over the roll of the guy's biceps thoughtfully, "Or maybe, be buggered by you. But I'm not completely, really, completely sure if I would like that."

He peers at the face in front of him blearily, searching for understanding. What meets him, as he glances down slightly, close proximity loading it with more tension than usual, is playful amusement pronouncing itself across those lips. "You have brilliant lips," John compliments.

"Thank you," the lips reply. "You're adorable."

John is slightly throw by that, and he glances up to find the guy that he is draping himself suggestively over, sharing a look with Sherlock Holmes.

An 'isn't he adorable' look.

Which John is not in agreement with.

He twists his neck, catching a cheek against the light stubble of the other man's and that is an odd feeling. He's not sure he likes it. The texture clings to the curve of his jaw as he catches Sherlock's gaze. Its doing the thing.

"Don't do the thing," he says.

Sherlock keeps doing the thing.

"Stop looking at me like I'm interesting," he repeats the sentiment accusingly.

Sherlock makes a noise that is neither an agreement nor a negative and steps towards John, who feels strong arms tighten around him soundly.

The arms, attached to the mouth, that wonderful, wonderful mouth that John wants to put his mouth against. The mouth is saying something. It sounds an awful lot like, "Obviously he's not up for anything in this state. But next time. Give him my number."

He glances down at John again, dark eyes meeting bright, "You're fit. Very, very fit. And utterly adorable."

John thinks that maybe he doesn't mind being adorable if he gets a shag out of it.

"I'm Josh, by the way," says Josh.

Josh. John likes Josh.

John wants to kiss Josh, very badly.

Sherlock spoils everything, placing long hands on John's hips, tugging him lightly away from the warm arms wrapped around him. John scowls over his shoulder. Because John is not moving away from this fuckable stranger even for Sherlock and his newly obvious after-a-shag sexiness."He's not interested," remarks Sherlock calmly.

To hell with Sherlock.

"What if I am?" he challenges.

"You're not. You're drunk," Sherlock shoots back, as if those two impact each other at all.

"Well, I'll call him later."

Sherlock holds his gaze for a few beats, and John is struck with the intensity of it harshly, unsteady after the amount he's had to drink. He looks away.

Sherlock stands a few moments, hands still a heavy heat on John's hips, and then steps away. "Fine."

The door to his bedroom shuts harsh and abrupt and John doesn't really know what's going on.

When he looks back to Josh, he's shifting uncomfortably, smooth assuredness gone in the wake of Sherlock's abrasive personality. Wonderful.

"Look, I don't wanna get in-between you two and... whatever you're doing."

Oh. John blinks at Josh slowly. "He's my best friend."

Josh's eyebrows raise, confused and slightly disbelieving, "Well you have one odd relationship dynamic."

He excuses himself and leaves John drunk and alone and without a phone number.

* * *

**I really, really hate exclamation points and I apologize for my overuse of them in my author's notes earlier.**

**I love Josh. He's a cool guy. Also I have an American accent and am surrounded constantly by people with strong English accents so Josh and I are bonded on a spiritual level.**

**More of this is on the way. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Sooo **

* * *

John wakes up slowly the next day, to the sound of Sherlock rattling pans around the kitchen. Sherlock only cooks on mornings when either Greg or John has a hangover and he's annoyed with them. Vindictive little shit.

Deep breath.

"Shut up!" John shouts, and then winces at the force of it ripping from his rough throat and the way it echoes and slams against the insides of his skull.

Sherlock retaliates by belting out a jingle about pop tarts and slamming a metal object against another metal object rather violently.

Multiple times.

John rolls from between the covers slowly, morning nibbling at the underside of his neck and brushing cool fingers over the heat of his t-shirt.

He shuffles into the kitchen, socks making the floor slide by, and rubs a hand through the spikes of his hair. Bleary eyed, he nudges the countertop beside Sherlock with his hip and leans to watch Sherlock's face.

"Good morning, you tit."

"Morning," replies Sherlock busily, nudging bacon with the edge of the spatula.

John fights out words, pushing them between the force of his yawn, and leans his back more solidly against the counter,"Did Greg make it back last night?"

"No."

There is a soft silence for a few moments and then John sighs, "I'm sorry about your guy last night. Jacob? No. Josh."

Sherlock snorts, "Not a problem."

John turns slightly to find him grinning. He swats at Sherlock's shoulder, "Shut up."

Sherlock nods behind him at an unfamiliar mobile on the table, "He left his phone. A very convenient pick up line is there somewhere."

"Oh piss off," John moans, wincing at the clash of dirty plates as he rummages around in the sink for some that he can easily wipe down. Minimal risk of fatal diseases. "And stop pickpocketing people for no reason."

"There was a very valid reason," Sherlock protests, "He will now come back for his phone, and you will give it to him. Minimal effort on your part, and you can finally get rid of your bad mood over the lack of time you've had to pleasure yourself."

John scrubs tiredly at his cheeks, fingertips against the rough of his stubble. He needs a shave. "Thanks. Wow. That's really- that's brilliant. You're a fantastic wingman."

"Sarcasm," Sherlock deflects, unfazed,"Why? You assured me that you were very interested last night."

"Interested-" John adopts his 'explaining social boundaries, queues, and situations' voice. "Sherlock, I was drunk. And horny. I would've been interested in anyone."

Sherlock seems to ponder this, "Anyone?" he's genuinely interested, like he is absorbing new information about John.

"Not just anyone," John turns, flattening his hands over the sheen of the countertop, "But... probably most people," he allows, "I don't know. Its not something I think about too often."

"Clearly."

The bacon flops across the two plates and bacon grease is drizzled generously across it.

John smiles appreciatively.

Sherlock breezes around the table in the middle of the kitchen, one leg replaced by hot glue, a towel, two forks, and an umbrella - nothing heavy allowed near it - to root around in a drawer for a knife and fork, brushing off some sort of dust, and thrusts a second pair at John, who already has one strip of bacon dangling above his mouth from the pinch of his fingers. John avoids cutlery if he can help it. There's no telling what its been used for, with Sherlock as a flatmate.

Sherlock's upper lip curls slightly, but he doesn't comment.

John continues to ignore him as he devours his bacon, and then half of Sherlock's.

* * *

**I dunno if anyone likes this but here you go. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Greg makes his grand entrance. Not really. But he's here.**

* * *

Greg stumbles through the door at six minutes past one in the afternoon, in the clothes he was wearing yesterday. A phone number is scrawled in dark red permanent marker across his forearm and he rubs at it absentmindedly as he drapes himself over the sofa.

"Food," he sighs weakly.

"In the fridge," yells Sherlock from his room. A crash follows, and much swearing.

"I know the food is in the bloody fridge if you were a decent human being-" mumbles Greg to himself as he rolls the aches of his muscles in a position that mimics a functioning human being, and trudges to the fridge to scan its contents.

It is disappointingly full of nothing. Well, there is beer and some kind of cheese. And a steadily decaying tomato.

Ah yes. Drink away the hangover.

Except, "Don't touch the beers," comes Sherlock's voice, rising over the high whistle of the kettle boiling from behind his door. The kettle that should be in the kitchen.

"Why not?" demands Greg, already placing the can back on the shelf with a resigned sigh.

"Experiment."

Is the only response.

Greg tries not to hate his life too much more.

Instead, he wanders over to Sherlock's room and nudges open the door. Inside, the room is dim, and Sherlock is sitting on his bed, a desk dragged up to it, working on something while the kettle finishes boiling from its spot on the floor in the corner.

"Where's John?" asks Greg.

Sherlock waves his hand vaguely in response.

"Tea," he says. Demands.

Greg feels the hangover thrum in the back of his skull and goes to the kitchen to root around for two clean mugs.

He takes a look at the foreign phone resting on the corner of the table. Considers the passcode. Tries a few combinations.

Red bars the screen every time.

He picks out two tea bags and brings the phone along with him to sit against the wall as he pours tea.

He doesn't ask what Sherlock is working on, but he gets up to set the hot drink next to his elbow, and hangs the phone in front of his face.

Sherlock considers it for a moment and taps in a code, which reveals the phone's background.

"Yours?" inquires Greg, eyebrows raised.

"No."

Greg grabs his tea and takes a seat on Sherlock's bed. He stares at the numbers scrawled across his arm briefly, and then enters them on the keypad of the phone.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

And then, "Hello?"

"Hey, this is Greg, from last night?"

Sherlock's eyes drag up from the concentration of his experiment. He glances back at Greg.

Who takes a sip of his tea and looks incredibly pleased with himself.

* * *

**I'm gonna have to figure out who Greg is calling. Or if it even matters.**

**If you like this smack a review in the little box down there cause it would seriously make my day. Or even if you don't like it like at all. Box is there. **


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